


Dreams of Insanity

by Anonymous



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Anal Sex, Dreams, Fuck Or Die, Hate Sex, Love/Hate, M/M, Sibling Incest, Voyeurism, as 'death' is a bit special for the elves .. the fill is also kind of special
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-03
Updated: 2016-02-03
Packaged: 2018-05-18 01:13:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,323
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5892427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Fëanor has assaulted Fingolfin with his sword, he is brought into the Ring of Doom to hear the Valar's judgement.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dreams of Insanity

**Dreams of Insanity**

*****

Fëanáro cannot remember how he had come to the Ring of Doom in the first place, all he remembers is yet another quarrel with his half-brother, about what he had already forgotten. Nothing of importance, as always. He rubs his eyes to chase his fatigue away and lets his drowsy eyes wander. Nobody, apart from him, is there – which is: odd.

“Thine action is not to be forgiven,” a voice says, and Fëanáro spins around, eyes wide. The seats assigned to the Lords of the West had been empty when he had awoken, just a second ago, but now they aren’t. “Such impertinent behavior can and shall not be tolerated in these lands.”

“What is the meaning of this?” Fëanáro finds himself asking aloud as his gaze wanders from one Vala to the next, threatening in their divinity. “What actions are you speaking of?”

_Why are they here?_

_Why is HE here?_

He doesn’t find an answer.

At the end, it is Aulë who offers him a sufficient explanation, one he can understand with his fogged mind. “You have attacked your own kin with a blade,” he thunders, and in response Fëanáro flinches briefly, “you have threatened to kill your own brother.”

Fëanáro’s return to lucidity is excruciatingly slow this day, but now vague memories keep returning: memories of shining armor, swelling murmur in the great hall of his father’s court and a golden blade against his half-brother’s throat.

_Alas!_

What is it their concern? Isn’t this a quarrel between him and Ñolofinwë?

“What of it?” spits Fëanáro in disdain. “He’s none of my kin.”

In the mingling light of the trees his eyes shine like fey, burning and searing, threatening the gods. Contrastingly to normal, it hasn’t the desired effect: they regard him entirely unimpressed, something that only sparks his anger further.

“Fëanáro. Of course he is,” a voice which he immediately identifies as Finwë’s says, “he is my son as much as you.”

His eyes grow wide. _Atar._ He had not expected him, of all, to be present.

“Father!” Fëanáro cries out and hope rises within him. It cannot be too grave when the king participates.

“Keep thy mouth shut,” demands Aulë.

Fëanáro’s hands clench into fists at his sides; what right does he have to insult him so?

“Dost thou think thy son’s ill-tempered heart can be healed?” Manwë asks, tilting his head towards where Finwë sits among them.

Finwë nods. “I do. For the sake of all, I hope it can.”

A heavy silence falls, which, at the end, Námo breaks. More than anyone else, he is the one Fëanáro loathes most.

“We have a proposition to make to thee,” the Vala announces, and Fëanáro’s blood freezes in his veins. There is something in Námo’s translucent eyes that hadn’t been there before; mischief, loathing, or something else entirely, impossible to decipher.

“What?” Fëanáro snaps, horror solidified on his face.

“Thou hast understood me fairly well,” says Námo, smirking. Insecurely Fëanáro’s eyes search for his father who still sits among the Ainur, hoping that Finwë would intervene.

He doesn’t.

Instead, he merely nods, and Fëanáro’s heart sinks. “Your father is a respectable elf,” Námo continues, “yet he has failed to teach thee manners. You threaten, assault your own brother, openly, with your sons gathered around you.”

“But-“ intervenes Fëanáro, trying to justify his behavior. He doesn’t come very far.

Námo’s gaze is unwavering as he raises his hand. “Silence! Do you truly think your clandestine tryst have remained undiscovered throughout all the years?”

Fëanáro’s face grows pale, lips twitching in shame and embarrassment.

“O, you truly have. Fëanáro,” Námo shakes his head in mocking pity. “If your father failed to teach you manners, perhaps your brother could? For once, you shall yield to him – in every way he desires! Take of thy clothes and submit to thy brother’s will , or-“

“Or what?” Fëanáro cries, hand balled into a fist high up in the air.

It was Oromë who speaks to him, then. “Or you shall abide the rest of your immortal life in Námo’s halls of twilight, and there thou shall serve him well.”

They must be joking, surely. Fëanáro lets his eyes wander from one to one, their expressions stern and sincere, devoid of sympathy, or even understanding. A shudder rushes through him upon the words, as it is obvious that they truly mean it. “No!” he screeches.

What madness is this?

“The choice is yours and yours alone, Fëanáro.” Finwë tells him.

“Father,” he mumbles in defeat. Pleading.

“Fëanáro, my beloved son,” his father says softly, his fëa brushing against his own, “accept their terms and do as told. Take of your clothes.”

“What?” he asks again, composure faltering. He doesn’t understand; well he does, he simply cannot believe that his own father does not defend him.

It is Oromë who finally loses his temper. “Fuck or die – is that so hard to understand?”

For a moment, Fëanáro does not move. He can’t, standing as if he is rooted to the ground, staring in his father’s emotionless face. He had never thought that his own father would betray him so.

In the distance, he hears footsteps approach, and slowly he turns around until his gaze falls onto his half-brother.

Once more, fury rises and before he knows it, the hateful words spill across his lips. “You rat,” he screeches, ugly and maliciously, “you have betrayed me, have betrayed us all when you tried to rob my father’s love from me. Usurper, you-”

“Watch thy tongue, Fëanáro,” intervenes Námo, a sharp edge to his tone.

Fëanáro does not listen. His eyes scan over his half-brother’s body, clad in blue robes with sleeves of silver, more curses gathering on his tongue.

“Whatever thy heart desires, it shall be yours, Ñolofinwë,” says Finwë, avoiding Fëanáro’s eyes.

Fëanáro’s stomach rebels violently upon the words, but for once he remains quiet, watching his half-brother drawing nearer.

Ñolofinwë stands before him now, smirking at him, brimming with excitement. Oh how he wished to slap that smirk of his half-brother’s lips, all the more when he opens his mouth to speak. “Brother,” he says, so soft that Fëanáro feels disgust rising from the words alone, “is the thought to love me so repulsive that you would favor death over it?”

Fëanáro does not say the answer. It isn’t, for sure, because deep inside, he loves him already, in the strange way that is his very own. But then there is his pride, those watchful eyes surrounding them – his own father. Embarrassment creeps along his cheeks, but at the end he surrenders, cursing and muttering under his breath.

There is an ache in the pit of his stomach Fëanáro cannot explain, a shiver of anticipation running along his spine. But why? He doesn’t want this, doesn’t want any of it, still an unmistakably surge of excitement soars through him.

At last, he shakes his head. “No.”

“On all fours.”

“What?” snarls Fëanáro, bluntly so. He shakes his head again, sending his black hair flying. No, not like this.

 Ñolofinwë’s gaze is unwavering. “I have said: undress yourself and get on your hands and knees.”

“I hate thee.”

“That is nothing you have not said before to me,” Ñolofinwë says, regarding him entirely unimpressed.

“Would you mind to make some haste?” interrupts Irmo, arms crossed in front of his chest. Fëanáro shoots him a look that is filled with indescribable loathing. O, how he hated them all, those who enslave his kin.

“He is right,” mumbles Ñolofinwë, pointing towards his half-brother’s chest, “undress.”

Fëanáro gives him a piercing look, but slowly his hands wander towards the lacings of his burgundy robes.

 

*****

Fëanáro likes to give orders just as he likes it rough between them - given that he is the one being in command; he has never been on the receiving side in their awkward relationship. He would never allow the usurper anything alike. It is him who belongs on his hands on knees.

But what choice does he have?

What was this against the prospect of the worst punishment of all?

Nothing! A few moments, nothing more, nothing of importance, Fëanáro keeps telling himself, nothing that truly matters. With dismay and loathing he shall endure, whatever madness occupies Ñolofinwë’s mind.

He draws in a deep breath, and begins to undo the first knot of the laces with trembling fingers. Ñolofinwë only gives him a brief nod of approval, urging him to continue in silence with his persisting stare. And so he does: knot after knot comes undone and soon the flexing muscles of his chest are revealed. Intensely, his half-brother watches him, stares at him hungrily as shame spreads across his face anew.

He doesn’t wear anything beneath his formal robes. He never does. It had been their secret throughout all the years, soon laid bare for all, even his own father, to see. Shame and embarrassment taint his cheeks scarlet, all the more when Ñolofinwë takes a step towards him and pushes the robes wordlessly from his shoulders.

“Fëanáro!” he hears his father gasp in shock, in the same moment Ñolofinwë gasps in anticipation. Fëanáro wishes for the ground to open and swallow him whole. Losing his father’s respect is worse than all else. For moments he is rendered speechless, eyes cast down onto the floor, afraid to see the disappointment in Finwë’s eyes.

At the end, it is his half-brother’s demanding voice that tears him out of his fretting. “On all fours,” he requests and yet again, Fëanáro pretends that he hasn’t heard him.

_“Stop these idle games.”_

Ñolofinwë glances at him softly. “Brother-“

“Half-brother,” he interrupts, staring right into Ñolofinwë’s eyes, contemplating the choices he has, which are, exactly – none.

“Good, then. Half-brother,” Ñolofinwë says, reaching out to touch Fëanáro’s burning cheek with a gentleness he has not expected, “defiance will lead to nowhere. Why do you make it so hard for us? Do you truly think that this here is my doing? That I do not wish for it to be different between you and I? Private?” A heavy sigh falls from his lips when he is finished. Wordlessly Ñolofinwë gestures towards the floor.

With a curse on his lips he drops obediently onto the cold stone, eyes averted and trying not to pay the arising murmur any notice. Ñolofinwë stifles a gasp when Fëanáro displays his backside to him; under other circumstances he would revel for many moments in the divine sight, but now he cannot. Quickly, he follows his half-brother’s movements and lowers himself onto his knees behind Fëanáro, fingers gently touching his buttocks, his back.

Ñolofinwë does not bother to undress, just the same way as he had never bothered to take off his clothes when his half-brother had knelt before him naked like on the day he was born; it aroused him, thrilled him.

Does it has the same effect on his half-brother? Perhaps, because Ñolofinwë does not waste any time. From behind he hears him spitting, and before he knows what happens his cheeks are parted and a wet finger probes his entrance.

Again, he curses, violently so.

It must have been ages, judging from the discomfort the finger brings.

Fëanáro forces himself to relax, but no matter how hard he tries the trembling of his body would not subside. Unrelenting the assault of Ñolofinwë’s fingers is, and more than once Fëanáro finds himself crying out loud. He hates himself for it, for this open display of weakness in front of their all eyes. All the more he hates Ñolofinwë’s: for his cruelty, for his persistence, for his warmth against his back – for his mere existence.

“Brother,” Ñolofinwë’s whispers against his skin.

“Half-brother,” interrupts Fëanáro once more, struggling for breath. Absently, his muscles clench around Ñolofinwë’s finger, nearly forcing it out again.

An exaggerated sigh leaves Ñolofinwë’s lips. “Half-brother, calm down.” At the same time his fingertip brushes against the spot within him, and Fëanáro bucks despite himself.

This is the worst humiliation of all. That he likes it, that he enjoys himself. The way Ñolofinwë’s finger moves within him, touches him so wonderfully filthy. Never before has he experienced his half-brother so demanding in his course, so impatient. When another finger is added he nearly screams – and then he moans. Again and again, his body shaking and trembling.

After all they aren’t so unlike; impatient, proud, demanding, an imperishable flame burning inside them.

He cannot see Ñolofinwë from his position, he can only judge from his experience what will happen next.

Ñolofinwë’s hips press flush against his arse, his fingers digging into Fëanáro’s hips as he forces himself all the way inside; he doesn’t move in in a gentle pace, certainly not intent to take his time. Fëanáro isn’t a virgin in such matters, not exactly at least, but he isn’t all too experienced in it either, hardly finding himself on the receiving end any longer. Still, he somehow manages to keep his composure, biting down on his lower lip to hinder the hisses of pain from falling. If he was honest, he wouldn’t want it any other way. The prospect of Ñolofinwë being gentle and caring only lead to disgust.

“How does it feel to submit?” Ñolofinwë wondered as he began to move inside him, slow and deliberately. If it is genuine interest or mockery Fëanáro doesn’t know – he suspects the latter.

Instead of words a trembling sigh leaves his lips. Despite the slight discomfort that rushes through him and the humiliation that still lingers undeniably, being filled with his half-brother’s cock feels so good.

Ñolofinwë curves himself against Fëanáro’s back, one arm wrapped around his half-brother’s stomach to support his him, steadying himself. The thrusts are long and shallow and Fëanáro already wishes him to fuck him harder, deeper, to drown out everything around them.

“Nolve,” Fëanáro’s voice floats up from below, nearly drowned out by his own moans. Despite his pride, he finds himself begging for what exactly he does not know. For his half-brother to stop – or to continue; for more, for his lips and teeth against his skin.

Momentarily, Ñolofinwë pauses. “Yes, brother?” asks Ñolofinwë, sweetly so. Fëanáro is so taken aback by the stir of breath against his neck that he lets the _‘brother’_ slip for once.

“By Eru’s balls, move,” demands Fëanáro with impatience. That he just has said the most blasphemous words existing in their tongue doesn’t occur to him, doesn’t bother him with his lust fogged mind, the Valar’s presence around him entirely forgotten.

“If you would not have interrupted me, I would still be moving, you know.” Laughter rings in Ñolofinwë’s voice, soft and pleasant, teasing, and idly, his warm fingertips dance across Fëanáro’s back.

He shoots him an impertinent glance over his shoulder. Frustration already reigned. “Then resume it.”

“Perhaps,” teases Ñolofinwë, “if you ask me nicely enough I shall.”

Flares of anger spark anew behind Fëanáro’s half-lidded eyes, but for once he swallows his pride as he had swallowed his half-brother’s cock earlier that week. He does not bother anymore if he sounds wanton, if he sounds like a shameless whore, he needs his brother’s cock as he need the air in his lungs.

**_“Please.”_ **

Ñolofinwë does as he is bid; soon after vowels of pleasure and breathy moans rip from Fëanáro’s throat.

 _“He looks lovely when the smug composure gets fucked of his face,”_ somebody says, but Fëanáro feels incapable to look over his shoulder to decipher who is speaking. It doesn’t matter when he feels so good; despite the fact that he is on his hands and knees, that countless eyes are fixed on them. His silent moans grow to growls that nearly drown out everything around them, assisted by the filthy sound of his half-brother’s skin slapping against his buttocks.

_“Indeed he does, such a pity that he has made the, for me, ‘wrong’ choice.”_

_“Your time will come.”_

Soon, Fëanáro’s world turns into a blur as his half-brother takes him roughly – in the same manner he always takes him – and his sense of self-control melts away further. Ñolofinwë’s hand grips his cock firmly in obvious lust, stroking him in the same rhythm as he fucks him.

Pleasure builds inside him and if he could he would muffle his cries with a pillow; but there is none with only the cold stone beneath his face. “Nolve, more,” he hears himself begging. Frantic and unashamed, reigned by desire. Ñolofinwë nearly laughs upon his half-brother’s desperation that was so unlike him, holding him tight and hindering from thrashing. But he increases his pace, adjusts the angle and within seconds Fëanáro finds himself shamelessly meeting every thrust, urging him on to still go faster. Fëanáro is close already, so close to lose himself into oblivion.

He feels his half-brother’s fingers weave into his hair and without warning, Ñolofinwë jerks his head violently backwards until pain blinds his vision.

“Not so proud anymore, Fëanáro,” comments Ñolofinwë nonchalantly, his lips too close against Fëanáro’s ears all of a sudden. Slowly, Ñolofinwë pulls out of him almost completely, idly doing exactly nothing for a while. “Begging. Whining. Shuddering under my touch.” With every word that follows he slams back into Fëanáro who is indeed reduced to a quivering and whining mess, gasping for air like a fish on the rocky shores. “I quite like it, **_brother.”_**

“Bastard,” snarls Fëanáro, as good as he is capable of in his devastated state.

The fingernails of Ñolofinwë’s other hand that idly rested against Fëanáro’s shoulder blade begin to scratch the glistening skin, not too gently. “Oh how I wish to tie you up and pin you down, gag that pretty mouth of yours that no sound would ever leave it again, fuck you until your pride and dignity is forgotten,” hisses Ñolofinwë, purposefully, before he bit down so hard that Fëanáro’s skin breaks under his assault. By the Valar, those filthy words in combination with the pain that flares behind is eyelids is enough to finally push him over the edge; with a loud cry Fëanáro spills into his half-brother’s fist.

The pace Ñolofinwë sets afterwards to reach his own climax is hard and brutal, something Fëanáro had not thought his half-brother is capable of; if it wasn’t for Ñolofinwë’s arm still wrapped around his chest he would be falling, limbs and arms growing week in his post orgasmic haze, his breathing shallow.

With a last hard thrust and a loud grunt, Ñolofinwë comes, spilling his seed deep inside him, mouth sucking so frantically at Fëanáro’s throat that tomorrow an angry mark will certainly grace his skin. For once he does not care, about nothing his half-brother does. Instead he revels in the desire Ñolofinwë obviously feels for him, in the warmth that covers his backs, those strong arms that still hold him.  

 

*****

A load cry spills from his lips, and Fëanáro jerks awake in the middle of the day, covered in sweat and his own seed splayed across his stomach. He is breathless, cheeks burning hot against his cold and trembling fingertips. Slowly he exhales, trying to catch his breath, and before his closed eyes he sees the confused look of pleasure on his half-brother’s face; his glistening lips, dark hair like his own falling over his shoulder.

 _This should have been a dream?_ Fëanáro asks himself. _Hardly_

Everything had been so vivid, so maddeningly arousing despite the humiliation he had to endure. His desire was anything but sated, fierce longing still throbbing through his veins – desire for one person specifically. With a curse, Fëanáro springs out of the bed in such a haste that he nearly falls over his own feet.

He needs to see him.

**_NOW!_ **

If Fëanáro had been able to think straight through the haze of sex that veils his mind, he might have noticed that it is perhaps not the wisest idea to step out of the door in his devastated state.

*****

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. Yes. Irmo shamelessly ships Fëanor/Fingolfin. 2. Námo totally ships himself with Fëanor (well, they have enough time for each other .. soon) 3. Yes. I am a terrible person. 4. I am sorry (no I am not, still this turned out differently than I had it originally in mind – I hope lovely anon who sent this prompt in like it. 5. Set a good while before the actual incidence with the sword
> 
> ubeta'd
> 
>  **[Disclaimer]** \- The Elves and the Valar are (unfortunately) not mine. They belong to J.R.R. Tolkien and Tolkien Estate – I just like to explore their lives a little further. No money is made from this story.  
> 


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